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P. R. FILDES, Editor. YOL. VI. flit (Quituum ganiwr. « PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY. terms: TWO DOLLARS A YEAR WHEIf' PAID IN' ADVANCE. ADVERTISING. One square. (10 lint**, or toss,) first insertion each following insertion, SI.OO. When advertisements are continued for one month or longer, the charge will be as follows : g£■j ii Jijl i ill I oll§jj lii j J a [ * » * « aj p Rj s j* 1 $5,001 $ 8 sio STT ii is it; 17| 18 20 2 S.OO 1 15 IS 21 24 26 28 30 35 3KI.00! 15 20 25 30 34 . 0 3S| 40 45 4 12.00 18 24 30 30. 40 42 44 40. 53 6 14.001 25 33 30. 44 40.-48 50 52| CO ' € DUX)| 30 4' 45 50 55 50, 57| 58, 65 fl 2 30.00 50 r,:. 70 7- SO 85 !» 100 120 18 45.00 65 7. 8) 85 <M» 100 120 120|150 24 60.001 75 80 90 100 110 120 120* 140 200 j ~ LEGAL ADVERTISING. Sheriffs Sales, per levy of 5 lines $ 2.50 44 44 e.vceediug 5 lie.es, pr. sqr... 5.00 Salea by Administrators, Executors and Guardians, ner equate 6.00 Citation of Administration or Guardian* ship, per sqnare 5.00 j Notice to Debtors and Creditors 0.00 Citation for leave to >ell land 6 00 Citation of Dismission of Administrator.. 10.00 44 “ Guardian C.OO Homestead Notice 5.00 For announcing candidates for office, SIO.OO Obituary notices. Tributes of Respect, and all •r tiptoe of'a personal character, charged for as advertisements. poetical To Wliom Shall We Give Thanks! A little boy had sought, the pump From whence the sparkling water hurst, And drank with eager joy the draught That kindly quenched his raging thirst. Then gracefully he touched his cap— I thank you. Mr. Pump, he said, For this nice drink you’ve given me! (This little boy had been well bred.) Then sakl the Pump, my little man, Yoirve welcome to what 1 have done; But I am not the one to thank— -1 only help the water run. Oh, then, the liK'.e fellow said. (Polite be always meant to be.) Cold water, phase accept rfty thanks, You have been very kind to me. Ah 1 *j»fd cold water, don't thank me; Far up the hillside lives the sp in«; That sends rne forth with generous hand To gladden every living tiling. I'll thank the spring, then, said the boy, And gracefully lie bowed his head. Oh. don't thank me, my little man, The spring with silvery accents said# Oh. don’t thank me - for what am I W’tbont the dew and summer rain? their aid I ne'er could quench Your thirst, my little boy, again. Oh. well. then, said the little boy. I'll gladly thank the rain and dew. Tray, don’t thank us—without the sun We could not till one cup for you. Then, Mr. Sun, ten thousand thanks For all that you hare done for rne. Stop! said the sun with blushing face, My little fellow, don't thank me, HVas from the ocean's nrghiy stores I drew the draught I gave to thee. Oh. ocean thanks! then said the boy— It echoed back, Not unto me. Not unto me, but unto Him Who formed the depths In which I lie, Go give thy thanks, my lLtlo boy. To Him who will thy wants supply. The boy took off his cap. and said, In tones go gentle and subdued, Oh. Gpd, I thank Tbre for this gift, Tb6ti art the giver of all good. KpstfUaitfous. .1 FITII. Miff There dwelt in California, some years ogo,.three fellows, wild fellows enough, who bad seemingly liked their fortunes for better or for worse, and who, what ever their luck, were constantly in each other’s company. These young men were Charles Ches ter, Harry [Bray and Edward Warren. They were more brotherly Ilian many brothers, mere akn than many kinsmen. True to each other, even when women •nd money were between them. Damon »nd Pythias, with a twin Pythias add< and. For a hng while they had been very •poor; at fast fortune favored them .Each had a certain sure, by no means •contemptible, stowed away in the leath ern belt he wore about his waist, j -£ach carried a gold watch, and each ■wore a suit of clothes supposed by him «elf to be the latest style and choicest fashion. Moreover, their revolvers were perfect, silver-mounted and rejoicing in a multiplicity of barrels; for without these it ,would be quite impossible to maintain a position in this quarierof the world in any society. How they enme by these possessions, we will not inquire into too particularly. They were naither burglars nor high waymen, but dice and betting may have helped them to the winning of their lit tle Fortunes. They were not over scru pulous; but ’they would have knocked any man down who had neglected to address them as gentlemen, and used those wonderful revolvers promptly on any “stranger,” who objected to drink ing with them; and constquently, stood rather high in the community. Certain ly in tfieir conduct to eact) other tiny were fluiltleesly houorable and niiracu-' 100.-ly g n rous. Oue day soon after “luck” had come j to its rest, a letter directed in a woman’s j tremulous hand ,to “Charles Chester/’ was handed to that member of the trio, i in the presence of the other two. Ttie young fellow seiz'd it eagerly, read it through, and tearing off his belt, spiead its contents before him Jupon the tab'e, and counted it over. Having done so he hurst into (carp, and very unwisely and profanely cursed himself for extrav agance, and requested for himsel:' all sorts of uncomfortable things, here and hereafter, a proceeding which seen.- to relieve Romo men extremely, though why, it would puzzle the unenlightened to declare. The cause of all this, as his comrades soon discovered, was that his mother hud written to him from her little fa:in iu a Southern State to tell him a doleful state of sickness, death among thostock, etc., and a final crash. A mortgage was almo.-t due, and, as the old people would j find it impossible to meet it, they would be sold out and ltd"t homeless in their I old age. "It will kill yotir father, ’ wrote j tl e mother, “and I will die with him.” I ‘I did it all/ said the young fellow, j I sobbing openly. ‘My debts and my! 1 wild ways encumbered them at first, and ! now look.’ And he pointed to the gold upon the table, and began his profane litany a pain. The mortgage was three thou sand dollars, and he had but two thou sand. ‘ls that all?’ cried Ned Warren, haul ing out bis belt. ‘Good heaven! What does be take us for?’ cried Harry Eray, furiously. ‘Five hundred apiece, and the expenses of the j'.urney are about the figure. There, go to the old folks We’ll see about your horses while you pack your hag,’ This set the other at his oaths again; but in joyful style this time. They were trumps and bricks, and by every thing he could think of he’d do for them if there were any need of it. ‘He’d pay them back, if lie lived, and j he’d—he’d—bless them/ and so choked j off into sobs again, at which they left hint to recover, returned with a In rse and well filled pocket flask, and saw lorn set forth upon his mission as though the ‘old to ks’ had been their old folks also. They waited frr news from him, but none came. They waited quietly at first, then impatiently; at last they heard this: He had never been seen at hots , or by any one who knew him since the day on which they shook hands with him. S..me terrible fate bad befallen him in the lonely places over which lie had to journey alone. To doubt h m never entered their minds. That lie was true to them as they to him they well knew; and one thought filled each mind. They must discover his late, nnd if it were what they supposed, avenge him. So one bright morning, well mounted, well armed, and followed by a favorite dog, a hound which would by no means be left I etiind, the two set forth in search of H eir lost comrade. They took the road lie must have taken, and asked at every tavern and cabin for news of him. One old man remembered him we’l; an other pointed out the dangerous place in the road leading past a precipice to a man of bis lost friend’s description, but at that point the clue was lost. After much travel and many inquiries our comrades began to fear that they should have paused to examine the rocks and ravines at the foot of the precipice allu ded to ere they proceeded further, and j determined to turn back and do so.! They came to this resolution about night fall, and just as they reached the borders of a little farm, which bore evidence of careful tillage. Upon this land also I stood a farm house; from the crevices in j the shutters of which streamed long bars | of ruddy lamp-light, and whence the! sound of music was plainly heard. It was the only dwelling within sight. ‘We will stay here/ said one friend to the other, * until dawn, and then return ■ That the house was not an tun did not matter to either ot them. Hospitality was never refused in the land to any one at that day . They rode boldly tip to the gate arid gave a loud lialoo. In an instant the door opened, and they could s o within a sudden panic in a lively dance, us all heads turned to see what had caused this interruption. ‘Can you let us sleep here to night?’ inquired one of the friends, as one asks who fears no refusal. ‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ said a pleasant voice. ‘You’re welcome. You’ll find a stable there, and corn fur your horses. Our man Jack is on the floor tonight; but here is a lantern if you'll tend to yourself.’ ‘Alt right, stranger,' said Harry, ‘and thank you too.’ And the two men led their horses into | a stable, already lull. Ned watered 1 them and secured them for the night, and would have left the place at once; but that one of the animals attracted Harry’s attention lie turned back to; look ot him; examined him from l ead to foot, turned red and pale, and suddenly clutched Ned’s arm. ‘You remember the horse we bought 1 for Charles Chester?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ said Ned. ‘Look at the follow, said Harry. ‘Yes, the very one. The star on his forehead, the scar on his foreleg, the color, the height! Ned, it’s Charley’s horse!’ ‘lt is the hors-/ said Ned, slowly. ‘Harry, if Charley- had lived to go, and his I or e would have gone witii him.’ ‘The owner of this animal may know all we need to bear,’ said Harry. ‘lt won’t be good news, Ned.’ Ned ebook Lis bead, aud sadly and HEBE SHALL THE PRESS THE PEOPLE’S RIGHTS MAINTAIN, UNAWED BY PEAR AND UNBRIBED BY GAIN. QUITMAN, GEO., APRIL 28, 1871. s'owly tlie men went toward tbe house. I They found the dancing at its height, and that this was tho home-coming ol the farmer’s bride—a pretty young wo man, with rosy cheeks and sparkling ; eyes, of whom the stalwart bridegroom steiiicd very fond nml proud. [ ‘Sit down, strangers/ said the old | man near the door. ‘You’ve come at a merry time, and don’t get much atten tion. My son is just the happiest fel low out, 1 believe—got no ey r s fur no body but that gal. You see they’ve been wailin quite a spell, and be bad no luck, none at all, and it seemed he’d got to give it up; but six months back lie had a streak. Wonderful? Explained it, but I don’t remember; so bo sends for her and me from Connecticut. She’s an orphan gal, and soon as the school term was over—she was teacli ing, ye know—she come. This is their warming, and them’s the neighbors. They all like Ike. Ike’s a good fellow— a real good fellow, though I say it. Take a nip stranger—don’t be afraid of the jug. I’ll fill it again. Why, what ails your dog?’ The dog left outside was howling rather fearfully. ‘Wants to come in perhaps/said Ned; ‘but it mightn’t be agreeable to tho la dies.’ ‘Bring him in/said the old man; but tbe dog would not come in. He stood beside a patch of grass in the garden, howling wo< fully, and scratching and tearing with all bis might. 1. ave the spot he would not, and the f ierids as, they saw him, and reinembci ed tho horse in the stable, felt the blood curdle in their veins. ‘Whose horse is that with a while [ star on the forehead and a scar on the fore leg—a handsome brown horse, with | wonderful eyes?’ whispeied Harry to I the old man. | ‘That’s my sou’s horse/ said the old i man. ‘Where did ho buy it?’ asket tie oth er. ‘Don’t know/said the old man, laugh ing childishly. ’Come to him with the rest of good luck, six months ago.’ Again tl'.c do" OBtbi/o uegan !;o'.v!. -igain the friends felt cold chills creep over them. ‘Where are we to sleep?’ asked Ed ward of the old man. ‘We don’t want slipper —we need rest.’ ‘l’ll show you/ said the old man. ‘The bouse will be full to night, but you’ll not mind roughing it/ And he led (lie way to nil upper room w here a rude bed was already spread. ‘Just lie duwu here, strangers,’ lie r aid. There’s a blanket, if you are cold, and there’s a candle. Good-night.’ The two men had sought solitude, that they might commune with each otl er. Yet now they could only say, ‘What does this mean?’ They bad said it as many ways a dozen times, when Ilarry, by accident, lifted ins eyes to a peg in the rough wall. On it hung something which riveted his gaze with horror. Yet it was an object quite com mon aud innocent in itself—only a pair of brown saddle-bugs, rather new in ap pearance, and with the letters ‘C, C. on tbe sido. ‘Look!’ be cried. ‘Look, Edward!’ "The other, in turn, stood mute for a time, then gave aspring toward the peg, tore the bags down and opened them. Within they found garments they knew tlieir fiiend bad worn, an empty belt, and the dnguci reotype of a young girl ol whom they had known him lo be very fond. ‘His horse in tbe stable, bis saddle bags and t elt here, the dog bowling on the turf without—what docs it ail mean?’ cried Harry again. And Ned answered, ‘We shall soon see/ and strode into the great room where the dancing was going on, and up to the bridegroom, standing at the head of a Virgiuia reel, with bis bride’s band in bis own. ‘Stop a bit/ cried Ned furiously. ‘We have a question lo ask. Whose horse is I that in the stable —the brown one, with a star on the forehead?’ ‘Mine,’ said the farmer turning, deadly white. ‘And the saddle bags up stairs marked c -. , , The farmer turned paler. ‘Gentlemon,’ he said wait until morn i: g an J I will explain everything.’ ‘Wo chouse to learn the truth for our selves/said the young man fiercely. “You had a mysterious streak of luck six months ago, I understand from the old man there/ said Ilarry Bray. ‘Not very mysterious/said the farmer i ‘I went to the diggings nnd foil in with a nugget. As for the horse, I found him i and Hie saddle bags too. If you know | to whom they belong, lie’s welcome to j them.’ i 'They belong to the man yutt mtirder !ed for bis money, and buried in the ground yonder where the dog is h iwl j ing/ cried Harry Bray. ‘We are going Ito dig there, and Heaven help any man i who binders us.’ i ‘Dig where you choose/ said the far : mer. ‘I am too well known here lo be t affraid of two madmen. I murdered aj man—l? There, I’m a fool to care for; such words! Dig, confound you! Many | a horse strays iu the woods; many a man I has found one, as well as ]. Come, neighbors set the fiddlers going, and let these madmen dig.’ And the spades sank into the turf, and i ! the t< rrTied guests gathered ar.mud, arid j tbe bride clung to her husband’s arm, and the music was dumb, and the dog’s long, melancholly wail filled the air, and at last, just as the rising moon thing her yellow beams upon the newly dug earth, Ned Warren cried in an awful voice, ‘be is here!’ And the two friends lifted from the gi ave that which had been a man, J with long death-grown black hair falling down over his shoulders. I lie had been shot in the head nnd j ttirougli the heart, and there was no doubt j in either mind that it rvns the body of J their lost friend. The farmer seemed j petrified with I orror; the bride fell into a dcatli-like swoon; tho guests tell a way from their host and looked at him askance. The old father tore his hair and pleaded lor mercy. But there was no mercy in any heart there. The aven gers were all powerful. The great room, adorned for festival and mirth, wan turned into a court room. The wo men were thrust from it; the men remain ed. On tho raised stand where the fid dler had been seated, Harry Bray now took his seat in the character of Judge I Lynch. The jury was named, tho mock trial hurrird on, and tho accused called upon to answer, lie pleaded not guilty. He denied any knowledge of the fact that a grave lay si' near his house. He persisted in tho repetition of the stalement that he had fulled the horse and saddle bags, but be admitted there had been money in tbe hitt'-r. He stood before them looking very un like a murderer, calling on them for jus tice—calling on God to witness the truth of his words; speaking of his young wife and tiis old father; bidding bis neighbors remember that he had never done them any wrong. But Judge Lynch lias no mercy, no compassion, no belief in the possibility of false accusation; and this Judge Lynch was an avenger of bl (id. The end was what the end of such a trial generally is; the sentence the awful one of death; and in less than three hours from the moment on which they first saw the bridcgio >m j happy and blithe, standing with his J bride at tbe head of tho gay country j dance, his body dangled, a horrible sight | to look upon, from the bin neb of the trees ; that sliaduwed wio.i, all uudcVCt! t! b” ■ his victim’s grave! When all was over they found the old | father dead in his chair, beside the fire place, and found i mong the women a hopeless, gibbering maniac, whom they would hardly have known for the rosy cheeked young bride. They were revenged, but at what cost I The two men returned to their homes, saddened and altered, yet not remorseful, I for they bad but revenged their comrade; and this to them seemed common justice. I file legal code of bordered life bad hern ; adhered to; but for tho last look at the j mad hrtde they could scarce have recog | sized how awful all this had been. They lived on together friends, still speaking often of poor Charley, and fancying that in some other world he might even know how well they had revenged themselves upon his murderer. And so five years passed; and one day the two went together in a coffee room kept by an old Frenchman in the city of nan Francisco, and being in low spirits, out of luck, and with slender purses, were silting disconsolate over tlieir meat, when a hand came down on each shoot der, and a voice cried, “Found at hist! I’ve searched the city fur you. Heaven bless yon, dear boys!’ It was Charley Chester, handsome and cheerful, well dressed, and well-to-do looking; Charley Chester, whose murder er they bolived themselves to have lynch-! ed years before. And this was li e story he told them, j wandering at their pallid h oks and awe struck silence tl e while. The money ho had with him being in gold, and heavy for his belt he placed it | in his s 'ddlc-bugs, and had completed many miles of his j oorney, when, near a new but apparently degcited dwelling, he saw a traveler who had been sot upon by ruffians and robbed and wounded. He ; had crawled to this house for assistance, but found it empty, and now lay dying on the road. Charles Chester had done irs best for the poor tcllow, hut '{without avail. He died in his arms just as the j s'in went down; and, by the fading light, he had dug a grave on the turf before i the empty house, and there buried him. ! There was no ado within sight, and his j fears of attack upon himself warned him I to burry on; but when the hast sad rites were ov r, and ho turned to mount his horse, it was gone. The animal had cr caped in tho woods, and, with night coming on, all search seemed hopeless. The money in tho saddle-bags rendered the loss a maddening one. He threaded his way through the underbrush, calling his steed by name, until total darkness j hid all objects; and, at last, striking his j head violently agrinst a tree, he fell to j the ground insensible. When lie come j to ho found himself lying in a wagon, to j which he had been conveyed by a kindly ‘German, he had broken his arm, and; was very weak and ill. Before he was able to communicate his story to anyone,! l all hope of recovering either horse or I money had deserted him. He was in ;• despair. He could not assist his parents j ! To return to his friends would he to i throw himself upon their bitinty. This/ he would not do; and his struggles had ' been great at first, but they were over i now. Ho bad done well by ‘the old j I folks’, and bad returned to pay bis debts I and lesumc his friendship with his old i fricuda.’ 1 i He was with them; lie lived. The far mer had doubtless told tbe truth, lfe did not even know why tbe turf had grown so green in the little yard, and bo had found the horse at largcjn the woods, and knew nothing of the rider; hut the thing had been dune, and could not bo undone—the dead brought to life, nr tho maniac's mind restored, or tho hlood washed from the murderers’ hands. j Os course they told tlieir story, and of course they believed their friendship as warm as ever; but it was not so. They never meet each other as yore. The two could not forget the man they had lynch i ed to avenge their friend, and doubted ; the propriety of bis returning alive and ! merry to trouble tlieir consciences, which | were quite enough as long as lie seemed dead. As for Charles Chester, he clear ed the murdered man’s memory among his neighbors, and saw the wild-eyed, 'white-faced woman, who only moaned at.d muttered and shook her head when ho spoke to her; anl then he, too, was content to say goodbye to those who had done the deed—albeit for bis sake. So the three parted each going his own way; fin- thus it seemed easier to forget the deed done by Judge Lynch and Ids court on the day of the bride’s coming homo. Is Futher on Deck? Some years ago, Captain I) Com manded a fino ship that sailed from Liv erpool to New York. During one of his voyages he had all l.is family on board the sliip with him. One night, while all were quietly asleep, a sudden squall of wind arose. It struck the vessel with great force, and threw her over on her beam ends. There was a great tumblmg and crashing of things on board The passengers awoke in a great fright.— They were in much danger. Everyone on board was alarmed. Some jumped out of their berths and began to dress themselves in a harry,not knowing hut that the vessel would soon sink. The captain had a little girl on board, about eight yenrs old. She avv »ko with the rest if the passengers. 'Wlmt’s the matter?' asked the fright ened child. Tbev told her that a squall of wind had struck the ship, and thrown her over on her side. 'ls father on deck?’ she asked. ‘Yes, father’s on deck.’ 'Then it’ll fee all right,’she said, and quietly sunk back on her pillow and went to sleep again. Like as a father pith th his children so the Lord pitieth them that fear him. The Secret «»l' Youth. There are women who without any special effort, remain always young and always attractive. Their number is smaller than it should he, but there is a sufficient number to mark the wide dif ference between the class and the other. The secret of this perpetual youth lies not in beauty, for some women possess it. who are not at all handsome; nor in dress, for they are frequently barely in that respect, so I ■ r ns the mere arbitra ry dictates of fashion are concerned; nor in having nothing to do for these cvcr-young women are always as busy as bees, and it is very well known that idleness will fret people into old age and ugliness quicker than over-work.— The charm, we imagine, lies in tho sun ny temper—neither more nor less—the blessed gift of always looking on the bright side of life, and of stretching the mantle of charity over every one’s faults and failings. It is not much of a secret hut it is all that wo have seen, and we have watched such with great interest, and a determination to report truthfully for the benefit of the sex. It is very provoking that it is something which cannot he corked up and sold for fifty cents a bottle. Hut this is impossible, arid is why the most of us will have to keep on growing old and ugly and disa greeable as usual. Woman. —Perhaps a more just anp beautiful compliment was never paid to woman than the following by Judge Story: To the eternal honor of the sex, be it said, that in the path of duty, no s renti er s with them are too high or too dear. Nothing is with them impossible, hut to shrink from what love, honor, innocence and rel gon require. The voice of pleasure or of power may pass by un heeded 1 >ut the vq'co of aff-clion never The chamber of the sick, tho eillow of the dying, the vigils of tiro dead, the al tar of religion never misses the pres ence or sympathies of woman! Timid though she he, and so delicate that the winds* of heaven may not too roughly visit her, on such occasions she loses all sense of danger, and assumes a preter natural courage, which knows not and tears not consequences. Then she dis plays that undaunted spirit which noi- : liter murmurs nor regrets: and that pa- j nonce in suffering which seems victo- i rious over death itself. On cm Latino. —Tho subject is again I revived of opium eating in the United States, particularly in New Yi rk City, and the developments arc startling. It is said that physicians arc called upon not to prescribe it in any shape unless necessity. It is estimated that many! millions of dollars arc annually spent ini that city alone for the drug which is ta ken in the form of pills. Women are known to use six and eight ounces oi it. in a single day, and the pernicious evil is on the increase i 1 [52.00 per Annum NO. 17 | N amt,eon's Flower. —The violet is the emblematic fl >wcr of tho Bonaparlcs, as the lily is of tho Bourbons. When Eugenie agreed to accept Napoleon's of j fer of marriage, she expressed it only by appearing one evening dressed in an ex quisite violets toilet—violets in her hair, and dress, even to a hunch in her hand. Louis Napoleon understood. Naprleou | the first, while consul selected this as his flower. It was through Josephine I asking him to bring her a bouquet of | them on her birthday'—a desire ho was I only able to save after great difficulty. | He cultivated them while a prisoner at St. Helena; and they wore profusely [planted over the grave of Josephine. After his death, his Collin was covered with humble flowers ho loved. It iseven said that in the earlier days of Lou's Napoleon ho was silently told who his friends were by a eaucious display of violets. Tho following estimate of woman’s love appears in an English contempora ry: “A Frenchwoman will love her hus band if he is either witty or chivalrous; a German woman, if he is constant and faithful; a Dutch woman, if ho does riot disturb her ease and comfort too much; a Spanish woman, if he wreaks ven geance on those who incur his displeas ure; an Italian woman, if ho is dreamy and poetical; a Danish woman, if ho thinks that her native country is tiro brightest and happiest on earth; a Rus sian woman, if lie despises all Western ers and miserable barbarians; an Eng lish woman, if he succeeds in ingratia ting himself with the court and aristoc racy; an American woman; if he has got plenty ul money.” Beautiful True. —Tho late eminent judge, Sir Allan Park, once said, at a public meeting in London: We lire in the moist of blessings till wo are utterly insensible to their greatness, and of tho source from whence they flow. Wo speak of our civilization, ottr arts, cur freedom, our laws, and forget entire ly how large a portion is duo to Christ!— anily. Blot Christianity out of the page of man’s history, and, what would his his civilization? Christianity is iiiTYod up with our very being and daily life; there is not a fami liar object around us which does not wear a different aspect because the light of Christian love is on it, not a law which does n't owe its truth and gentle ness to Christianity, not a custom which cannot he trac 'd, in all its holy, health ful parts to the gospel. The lives of Horses. To lest a horse’s eye, look at the eye carefully, when tho horse is in rather a dark stable. Note tho size and shape of tho pupil, carry this carefully in your mind while you turn the horse about to a strong light. If the pupil contracts and appears much smaller than in tlnj first instance, you may infer that tho horse lias a good strong eye, l>nt if tho pupil remains neai ly the same size in both cases, his eyes arc weak, and you had hotter have nothing to do with him. Marriage. —Leigh Hunt concludes an essay on marriage as follows: There is no one tiling more lovely in this life, more lull of divinest courage than a young ’uaidon, f.iotn her past life Irorn her jjinppy childhood, when she rambled over every field and moor around her home; when her mother an— licipaterl her wants and soothed her little cares, when brothers arid sisters grew from merry play mates, to loving, trusting friends; from Christmas gather iegs and romps, the summer festivals i t bower or garden; from the rooms sancti fied by tho death of relatives; from the secure back-grounds of her childhood and girlhood, and maidenhood, looks out into the unilliiminated future, away from all that, and yet unterrili and, un daunted, leans her fait cheek upon her lover’s breast, arid whispers, ‘Dear heart! I cannot see, hut I believe. The past was beautiful, and the future I can trust —with UioeP A trav filer once visiting the light house at (’alias said to the keeper, "But what if one of your lights should go out at night?” ‘Never—•impossible!' ho cried. ‘Sir, yonder arc ships sailing to all parts of the world. If to-night oner of my burners were out, in six months I should hear from Am irica oi India, say. mg that on such a fnight tho lights at Caiin light-house gave no warning and some vessel had been wrecked. Ah, sir! sometimes 1 feel when I look upon my lights as if the eyes of the whole world were upon ine. No one knows how much sorrow and suffering may ensue from a single neglect of duty. A Dutch bootmaker in Belfast, Maine, recently sold a man a pair of high bools which lie recommended to be welt made. A few days aftei wards the man return ed with them, and said that lie went out into the barnyard to work, where it was a little wet-, and tiro soles camo off. ‘‘Mine Got, mine friend, you didn’t ought to vuik round nit dein. Doy ish caval ry boots, made to ride mit.’ The less man knows (he wider he wears his mouth open. It is as im possible for a fool to keep Iris jaws shut ns it is for a sick oyster to keep his shell c’oscl.